Low-Fantasy Occultist

Vaulted ceilings of polished black marble stretched across the grand foyer, while silver fixtures shaped like anvils and crossed hammers held bright blue lumen-stones that banished any shadows.

In the Kingdom of Berea, nobility was a gear in a sprawling machine, a duty forged long before the current King took the throne. House Crowley, for instance, stood as the shield against the Green Ocean, tasked with holding the western border against the creeping horrors of the deep woods. Their blood paid for the realm's timber and safety.

The Ultimers had once been the Royal Armorers, forging the unbreakable plate worn by the first kings of the line, just as the Elpens had served as the Royal Enchanters, weaving protective wards into the crown's palace walls.

Centuries had passed since the throne required their direct labor. The current sovereign commanded his own legions of artificers in the capital, rendering the northern houses somewhat obsolete in their original functions. Yet the ancient mandates lingered in the blood and the stone of their ancestral homes. The Ultimers still built mighty fortresses; the Elpens still built marvels, waiting for the King to call upon them.

That neither House had participated much in the war against the dwarves was an ugly stain on their honor, though allowances could be made, as Ephor’s son died in the first skirmish and the Elpens had been deemed gone, returning only recently.

Still, when the other High Nobles of the North return from the depths, they will use it against Gaelen. He’ll need to shore up his position as much as possible.

Upstairs, the grand drawing room was a picture of open ledgers, spilled wine, and desperate greed. Three men and one woman stood around a long mahogany table, shouting over a stack of banking writs. They froze as Nick stepped through the doors, his boots clicking sharply on the marble floor.

"I am Nicholas Crowley," he announced, his voice cutting through the frantic bickering. "Lord Gaelen Elpen has named me arbiter of the Ultimer succession. Sit down.”

The three male cousins exchanged nervous glances. They wore fine silks that looked barely rumpled, yet their faces were pale with exhaustion. The woman, however, stood her ground, radiating calm, dangerous confidence.

That one, Nick knew, would be trouble. He’d been warned about her by Gaelen, who’d once considered assassinating her before retreating when it became clear she was too well protected.

Lady Misaria was a beauty with few, if any, peers. She had pale, flawless skin, raven-dark hair cascading over bare, sloping shoulders, and calculating violet eyes. She wore a mourning gown of dark velvet that clung to her curves, the rich fabric emphasizing the delicate slope of her collarbones. The three men beside her kept casting her fleeting, hungry glances, their arguments faltering whenever she looked at them.

Even at a glance, it was clear she had them on strings, playing their ambitions against one another with the practiced ease of a maestro.

She might already be Lady Ultimer, in fact, if not yet in name. She’s just waiting to see which of her cousins will be most useful to her ambitions.

If she solidified her hold on the Ultimer wealth, Nick knew she would sink her fangs into the rest of Toneburg before the snow melted. A woman with her cunning, backed by enough personal power to put her at least at level sixty and a face that could start wars, was a danger to the fragile peace Gaelen needed to rebuild his house.

"Lord Crowley," she purred, her voice a melodic, soothing hum that seemed to vibrate in the air. She stepped forward, her hips swaying with measured grace that made the movement look natural rather than deliberate. "We are merely attempting to preserve our birthright from the scavengers outside. Surely a man of your refinement understands the necessity of securing one's legacy against the common rabble.”

As she spoke, the ether in the room shifted.

Nick could see her channel her mana, weaving it through the cadence of her voice and the faint floral scent of orchids clinging to her skin. It was a sophisticated charm spell, designed to cloud judgment, soften the heart, and bind the target’s will to her own. A pink mist of magic drifted across the drawing room, visible only in the ether, wrapping around Nick’s shoulders like a silk scarf.

It washed over him, finding no purchase.

[Blasphemy] flared in rejection of external authority, meeting the charm and snuffing it out like a candle caught in a winter gale. The magic shattered, the pink mist dissolving before it could even brush against Nick’s consciousness.

Nick offered a cold smile. “With such heavy perfume, Lady Misaria, I’m surprised you even managed to start the talks.”

She recoiled, her seductive mask cracking down the middle. Unvarnished panic flushed her pale cheeks, destroying her composed facade, yet merely painting her beauty in another shade.

She stepped back, realizing the depth of the ocean she had just tried to swim in, and Nick watched her with half-lidded eyes, thinking she might have had better success relying on her natural beauty alone.

Her features were breathtaking, but the black, grasping ambition rotting in her soul ruined the picture for anyone with the eyes to see it.

I’ll have to deal with her. No sense leaving someone so dangerous and willing to abuse her powers alive.

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"We can make an arrangement," the eldest male cousin blurted, wiping a sheen of sweat from his balding forehead, eager to fill the sudden silence. "The outer foundries are intact. A third of their output, funneled directly into your personal accounts, Crowley. Anonymously. The Elpens do not need to know. Just declare me the rightful heir, and the iron will flow south.”

"I offer half," another cousin snapped, slamming a fist on the table, sending a silver inkwell clattering to the floor. "And the deeds to the lower merchant blocks! You will be a king in all but name.”

Nick tuned out their bluster, knowing they had little to no authority to make such promises, his attention drawn elsewhere. His senses caught a discordant rhythm, bleeding through the general nervousness that cloaked the manor.

It was a muted, steady thump beneath the floorboards, bitter with the taste of starvation, pain, and isolation.

Ignoring the grasping cousins, Nick turned from the table and walked toward the far wall lined with towering oak bookshelves. The resonance grew sharper, pounding like a wounded heart with each step he took.

"My lord, the ledgers are on the table," Misaria said. Her smooth cadence barely concealed her genuine dread. She knew he’d sensed something amiss, but after her attempt to charm him had failed so utterly, she had no power to stop him.

Nick stopped before a section of the bookshelf holding thick metallurgical encyclopedias. He pressed his open palm against the wood, channeling a fraction of his mana into the solid oak.

The wood groaned, splintered, and violently shattered inward. A hidden locking mechanism snapped like dry twigs, revealing a narrow, descending stairwell choked with dust and stale air, except for a few more recent footprints he could spy on the steps.

The blood drained from the faces of the four cousins, yet before they could do anything, they were pinned in place by kinetic shields.

Nick didn’t even spare them a glance as he descended into the dark, summoning an orb of blue light to illuminate the stone steps. The air grew colder as he descended, and the smell of dried urine grew stronger.

At the bottom of the stairs, a windowless stone cell waited in the gloom. Intricate wards were etched deeply into the masonry, glowing with a faint, warning red light. Nick read the Irvinic syntax layered into the stone.

Kinslaying prevention. That explains why they have yet to come to blows. The wards would kill anyone who attempted it.

The manor itself forbade the spilling of Ultimer blood by an Ultimer hand within its walls. The ambitious cousins could not drive a knife into each other’s hearts without triggering the lethal defenses he could feel slumbering behind the walls.

And it explains why there is a girl here. If she were merely a prisoner from before Ephor’s fall, they would have killed her. But if she’s family, they would have needed to take her out, and they’ve been under siege by the Hounds.

So, they had locked her in the dark to starve, waiting for nature to do the dirty work their blades could not, while they divided the gold aboveground.

Nick wasn’t sure that would be allowed by the wards either, but it was possible the ancient Ultimers had left such a workaround behind. Or, just as likely, the moment she breathed her last, they would activate anyway and kill everyone responsible.

Such arrogance plagues this bloodline. Even with their greatest member dead, they believe they still have any power.

Chained to the wall by crude iron cuffs, a young girl sat.

She was no older than sixteen, her dress reduced to dirty, tear-stained rags. Her bare feet were black with soot and grime. She shivered uncontrollably in the damp cold, her face gaunt and hollowed by days of starvation. Yet when she looked up at the blue light, Nick saw the unmistakable, sharp features of the Ultimer lineage and a pair of calculating purple eyes.

She was pretty, though she lacked the polished, devastating allure of Misaria. If he was right, she possessed something far more valuable.

"Are you the headsman?" the girl rasped, her voice cracking like dry leaves underfoot. She lifted her chin, refusing to look away from the glowing orb, her gaze locked on Nick.

A spine of steel. Yes, if his suspicions were correct, this would be the only living claimant to the remaining estate he could tolerate.

“Nay, though I might end up being such for your cousins,” Nick corrected quietly, stepping into the cell.

He willed the iron cuffs to rust, and the metal decayed into orange flakes. The girl rubbed her bruised, bloodstained wrists, eyeing him with a mixture of wariness and fierce defiance, and Nick took off his dark coat, draping it over her trembling shoulders.

The thick wool swallowed her frail frame, offering a small measure of warmth, and he gave her a small smile.

Slowly, for he was in full control and had no need to hurry, he led her back up the stairs. When they emerged into the drawing room, the four cousins were still trapped within the invisible barriers, looking like cornered rats.

"Bessalea," Misaria breathed, her violet eyes wide with feigned shock. When she saw his unamused expression, she switched tactics. “She is a bastard. A stain on the lineage. She holds no legal right to the high seat.”

"She is the sole surviving heir of Patriarch Ephor," Nick stated, his voice ringing with finality. “More importantly, House Elpen recognizes her claim. You four have until nightfall to pack whatever you can carry and leave Toneburg. If I see any of your faces in this city tomorrow, I will let Commander Varg explain the penalties of treason to you.”

The eldest cousin opened his mouth to protest, his face flushing crimson, but the crushing density of Nick's aura flared, silencing the room.

They nodded frantically, spun on their heels, and fled through the double doors.

Bessalea stood tall in his oversized coat, watching her treacherous relatives flee down the marble hallway. She was perfect for Toneburg's new balance. She clearly possessed her grandfather's iron will, but she lacked the resources, the levels, and the allies to rule the Ultimer holdings alone.

She would need years, perhaps decades, of hard work to establish herself in the cutthroat politics of the northern city. To survive the inevitable challenges posed by the returning nobles and the Duke's ambitions, she would be utterly reliant on the protection of House Elpen. Gaelen had gained an ally bound by necessity, further securing his position.

"Show me the vaults," Nick told her.

Bessalea gave a stiff nod, leading him deeper into the manor. Her feet were bare on the cold marble, yet she made no protest and did not try to speak.

It took her some time to find the vault and longer to open it, as it required blood and chants. Eventually, the treasury of House Ultimer sprawled before him, a testament to centuries of forging some of the best weapons in Berea. Rows of precious ingots, enchanted breastplates gleaming with latent magic, and crates of uncut gemstones lined the floor.

Nick walked down the central aisle, assessing the plunder. He levitated four stout wooden carts, loaded them with silver and gold bars and crates of reinforced-steel swords, and set them near the vault's entrance.

"That is the Black Hounds' quota," he told Bessalea, gesturing toward the carts. "It will pay their bounties and ensure they don’t get any ideas about breaking in.”

She nodded slowly, her violet eyes tracking his every move, clearly calculating the loss against the total treasury. "And the rest?”

He didn’t know how well informed she was, but since she wasn’t asking, he didn’t offer any information.

“Some of it will go to House Elpen as reparations, while the rest will remain yours to rebuild your house and secure your future.”

Before sealing the chamber, Nick had walked past a glass display case near the rear, his senses catching a peculiar anomaly. Inside the case hung a robe of deep midnight silk, stitched with silver threads that formed intricate patterns along the hem.

At first glance, it seemed relatively normal, a fine but unassuming garment suited to a wealthy nobleman. Yet Nick’s heightened awareness caught a subtle resonance that aligned with his own spiritual presence.

With a flick of his wrist, the display case unlocked, its hinges turning without a sound. The midnight silk robe vanished into his spatial ring in a blur. He considered it a fair price for his arbitration services.

Once he’d taken the Elpens’ quota, he finally led Bessalea outside and summoned the shard. He drew on [Spiritual Sovereign], weaving a lock across the doorframe.

The magic manifested as a glowing lattice of pale blue light that sank deep into the metal, and he tied the intricate spellform to the resonance of his own soul and to the fresh splatters of Bessalea's blood still weeping down the front.

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